


Despite His Better Judgement

by bazz



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, just mounds and mounds of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5003221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bazz/pseuds/bazz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Jim Gordon has nice eyes</i>, Oswald thinks suddenly, with Jim’s hands gripping his lapels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Despite His Better Judgement

_Jim Gordon has nice eyes_ , Oswald thinks suddenly, with Jim’s hands gripping his lapels. Jim’s shouting at him now and he should probably listen to what he’s saying, but Oswald’s mind is determined to wander. He can’t tell, in this light, what color Jim’s eyes are exactly, but they’re nice anyhow. Eyes are the windows to the soul, they always say, and Oswald thinks that’s true, thinks that Jim’s a good man all the way to his core. He must be, with eyes that draw Oswald’s thoughts away from everything else like this. Moments later Oswald hits the ground and that’s that, any thoughts of tired eyes lost in the pavement of the city sidewalk.

He tells Jim a while later, with a glass of champagne sitting lukewarm in his hands. 

“You have nice eyes, Jim Gordon,” he says, then just “Jim”, because surely they’re on a first name basis by now. They’re friends, after all.

Jim looks down, then back up, then down again, and his mouth twitches like he thinks he’s supposed to smile but he’s not quite sure. 

“Now you could compliment me, if you like.” Oswald says.

Jim’s eyes were on his drink; whiskey, because he was a cop with a buzzcut, and cops with buzzcuts drink whiskey. His eyebrows scrunch together and he almost doesn’t say anything, almost lets the moment pass but for some reason he doesn’t. For some reason, he looks at Oswald, if only for a brief second, then back at his drink. 

“I like your freckles.”

Oswald laughs in that chirping way of his, eyes big and bright and focused only on Jim. He leans in just enough that their arms brush, and Jim almost pulls away. 

He doesn’t.

\---

Oswald goes to visit Jim at work one day. He’s been thinking about it, likes how familiar it seems, just stopping by to say hello. Casual.

 _Police stations can’t be like they seem in tv shows_ , he thinks. _Most days are probably slow around the station for Jim, so it won’t be a big deal_. 

When he gets there, there are a lot people walking around, a lot of papers shuffling, but it’s nothing too intense. Oswald doesn’t feel like he’s unwelcome until he locks eyes with Jim from across the room. He tightens his grip on his cane but smiles with his whole face simply because Jim’s here and that’s enough to make him happy right now. 

Jim opens his mouth, but Oswald’s already talking before he can get the first syllable out. Talking ‘how do you do’s and ‘it’s a nice day’s and Jim doesn’t interrupt, just lets the words settle into his skin because he’s secretly been missing this. Missing Oswald.

Oswald asks him if he’d like to get lunch, and Jim tells him no.

\---

It was Oswald’s birthday, apparently, and Jim laments that tidbit. The less he knows about Oswald, the better, so he doesn’t ask how old he is. He doesn’t let himself linger on what color his eyes are, right here up close. ‘Green’, his mind provides, even though Jim certainly didn’t ask.

‘Did I ask?’ he says, internally, to his brain. ‘You must have’, it replies, smugly.

Jim frowns and the smile on Oswald’s face droops a little too. “Sorry it’s such short notice, it wasn’t really a planned event.”

“No, no, it’s...that’s not the problem.”

“There’s a problem?”

“Well, yes.” And there are. There are a million problems, and he tries with all of his might to care about them, waits for the feeling to come rushing in, the righteousness, the ‘I’m a cop, you’re a killer’-ness. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t come, and Jim’s just left standing there, dumbstruck. He looks at Oswald and, despite his better judgement, just sees Oswald.

“So, I shouldn’t be expecting you?”

“I--” He’s conflicted. He’s actually conflicted about whether or not to go to a mobster’s birthday party. “I don’t think so.” 

_Good, that’s the right choice,_ the rational side of his mind provides. 

He can’t really understand the other half, it mainly just sounds like a bunch of screaming.

Oswald’s mouth tightens. “I see. Well, if you change your mind, my door is always open to you, Jim Gordon.” He leaves briskly, and Jim watches him go every step of the way, but pretends not to.

He went to Oswald’s club once, after Barbara left. He was tired, but not tired enough to sleep, and he was sad, and Oswald said he’d let him drink all he wanted, no charge. So, Jim did just that. And if things were said, then they were said, and if there were touches, then it wasn’t a big deal, and if the touches were _lingering_ touches, well, that was entirely subjective. 

He promised himself he’d never go back.

\---

Oswald pours him a drink.

The club’s empty, all except them and the band. Oswald said his mother was there, but she’s since gone to bed. Jim can’t blame her. If he had a bit of sense, that’s where he’d be too. At home, asleep

It’s been about an hour, maybe hour and a half since Jim showed up, generic dollar store birthday card shaking in his hand. Which was dumb, because usually his hands only shook when he was nervous and he _definitely_ was not nervous.

When Oswald saw him, he _rocketed_ out of his lonely bar stool so fast that he smacked his drink right off the counter. 

“Oh!” he leaned down to pick up his glass, but ignored the puddle for now, in favor of giving Jim a face-splitting grin. “You made it.”

When Jim smiled back, he was alarmed to find that it was genuine.

Now they sit side-by-side at the bar, and Jim’s had a bit to drink, but not enough to excuse the way his chair just happens to keep scooting closer and closer to Oswald’s.

Oswald pretends not to notice and Jim pretends not to notice Oswald pretending not to notice. 

The band plays something slow, and it hangs in the air around them. It feels almost prodding, egging them on to do something about the static between their bodies and the itch in the soles of their shoes.  


“Come oooon”, says the alcohol resting warm in Jim’s belly. 

“It’s just one dance”, insists the music.

“Nobody needs to know”, say the spiderweb shadows Oswald’s eyelashes are casting on his cheek.

Jim clears his throat a little. “Nice music.”

“Oh yeah, the best. Well, the best locally. That I could afford.” Oswald laughs a little.

Jim only gives one huff of laughter, but his eyes stay smiling, looking at Oswald.

“Can you dance? With your…”

“Well enough. I have my limits, of course.” Oswald’s smile curls conspiratorially. “Are you _asking_?”

Jim keeps his voice steady. Fuck it. “Yes.”

Jim, being the taller of the two, takes the lead, hands on Oswald’s hips. They sway back and forth.

“Anyone ever tell you that you dance like a middleschooler?” 

Jim rolls his eyes. 

“I’ll take that as a yes. Not surprising.” 

“Anyone ever tell you that you--”

“Look like a bird? Come on Jim, you’re better than that.”

“That I am. I was going to say,” Jim hesitates, but as the warmth of Oswald’s hips on his hands remind him, he’s really in way too deep to shy away, “has anyone ever told you that you’re very handsome before?”

Oswald smiles, ducking his head. “That’s irrelevant. A compliment is just as special whether someone else has already said it or not.” Jim looks at him. “My mother has.”

“Well, she’s a smart lady. Or a lady with good eyes, at least.”

“She’s both. And thank you.”

Jim closes his eyes and shrugs, a hint of a smirk playing on the corner of his mouth, something Oswald finds stupidly endearing.  


_This is nice_ , Jim thought, his rational mind so beyond horrified that it had just given up entirely. 

The band stopped playing and they applauded before returning to their seats and downing the last lingering drops in their shot glasses. 

“I was actually going to close up soon when you arrived.”

Jim looks at him. “Oh. Yeah, it’s late. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

There’s a numbness in his fingers that almost feels like electricity, and he stands up without thinking, barely feeling anything. It’s like he’s floating, and his hands are back on Oswald’s hips, falling back into place like it’s routine. Oswald’s standing too now, he didn’t think to do it, just did. 

Oswald reaches up, stroking Jim’s jawline, slow, _careful_. Jim audibly swallows, and he can hear his breaths become shaky, can feel his legs get wobbly. He cups Oswald’s face in his hands and kisses him slow.

“God,” he says, “you have the most incredible eyes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ta-da? First Gotham fic. I started it when I was only like 4 episodes in because I'm a doofus, so my grip on the characterization is shaky at best. So sorry about that, it's pretty obvious. Also, this is unbeta'd, so if you see any errors don't be afraid to point them out. Feedback is a good thing!


End file.
